


Newcomer

by WickedlyEmma



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Choking, Come as Lube, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Somnophilia, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedlyEmma/pseuds/WickedlyEmma
Summary: You move into the old Heelshire mansion and your dreams torment you.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 380





	Newcomer

The mansion is in surprisingly good condition considering it had been abandoned five years ago. The ivy has taken over most of the outside, creeping in through cracks in the brick. You suspect that will become a problem within the next few decades. Well, you think, assuming you live here that long.

You drop the last of the moving boxes in the foyer, wrinkling your nose at the musty air. You certainly hope you’ll live here for the foreseeable future. This house is everything you dreamed it would be: large, isolated, and cheap. It didn’t hurt that the aftermath of the murder and subsequent haunting lowered the property value. You’d rather deal with a possible ghost than exorbitant property taxes.

“You sure you’re all good to set up? It’s a rather large house for such a small gal.”

You smile politely at the mover. “I can handle it, don’t worry. I have a stepladder and everything.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

He sounds dubious, but you remain confident in your decision. When he leaves, the slam of the door echoes throughout the foyer.

“Well,” you say to the walls, “Time to get started.”

By the time you manage to get your bed and dresser up the stairs, your body is aching. Part of you starts to regret turning the mover away. This would sure be easier with two people. But a larger part of you enjoys the solitude. The quiet. The all-encompassing silence that you had never managed to find in the city. The house breathes and creaks, but you find yourself settling into the rhythms of the house. You could get used to this, you think.

Tonight, all you set up is the bedroom. Your body is moving too slowly to feel up to doing anything else. You put your clothes away and make your bed. It’s just as cozy as you wanted it to be and most importantly— it’s yours and yours alone. You breathe a contented sigh. Tomorrow you’ll get started on the other rooms. Hopefully. You eat a dinner of dry Lucky Charms and fall asleep in your bed without changing into your pajamas.

*

You wake up in the middle of a dream, the memory of which dissipates seconds after you wake. You rub your eyes, feeling strangely groggy. But, you realize, you spent the night in your new house. The thought sends a jolt of excitement through your heart in a way that you thought was lost to you in the remnants of childhood. The leftover excitement serves to propel yourself from your bed and shamble over to your dresser. You get dressed quickly, gooseflesh erupting in the short time you were undressed. Idly, you hope that utilities will kick in soon. You’re tired of living in the cold.

Jogging downstairs to the kitchen, you fix yourself another meal of dry cereal. Strangely enough, the Lucky Charms are gone so you have to settle for off-brand cornflakes. You wonder where you put the Lucky Charms. Your brain is so scattered frommoving, you’re lucky you haven’t managed to misplace the moving truck.

“Alright,” you say aloud, your voice echoing in the empty kitchen, “Time to start the day.”

It doesn’t take you long to set up the living room. The mover had already moved in your sofa and coffee table and it doesn’t take that long to mount your small TV on the wall. You have little plans for the rest of the house at the moment. Filling up a mansion with furniture is no easy task, especially considering what little you managed to save from your ex-husband. Greedy bastard.

You can feel rage starting to simmer at the back of your mind so you force yourself to close it off.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” you murmur to yourself.

For a moment, you think you hear a whisper coming from the walls.

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

A heartbeat passes. There’s no response. You laugh to yourself, nervous and shrill. You leave the living room with an itch on your back.

It’s not so bad being all alone during the day with the sun and chirping birds. The workload of moving helps to distract your mind from any misplaced creaks or voices that you tell yourself are in your head.

At night, there is no such distraction.

You hear the footsteps in the haze of sleep, awakening you from your dead slumber. You’re not scared, not yet. Here, with dreams still enshrouding your mind, you’re braver than during daytime.

“Hello,” you say to the figure in the corner. The shadows of the room cover his face, but you can see a tall figure that’s unmistakably man.

“Why are you here?” He asks in a high, thin voice.

You make an abortive attempt to get up before you realize you can’t move an inch.

Oh.

You’re still asleep, you realize.

You relax into the paralysis, gazing at the figure. He’s different from the ones you’ve had before. Taller. More defined. You look at him as he steps into the creeping moonlight and your breath catches in your chest. Your eyes skip over the coarse hair covering his arms and chest to settle on the blood-flecked mask hiding his face.

“Why are you **here**?” He asks again. His voice slips into something darker. More primal. You shiver and lick your lips, the most movement allowed to you at the moment.

“I didn’t have anywhere to go,” you say. You’ve never been able to talk during sleep paralysis before. You’re glad you can talk to this one.

The man tilts his head, dispassionate eyes looking back into your own.

“Are you here to take care of me?”

There’s a tremor in your bone marrow as you imagine how you’d like to take care of him.

When you don’t answer, the man takes a step towards you and raises a hand to your throat.

“Or are you here to **hurt**?” His hand tightens around your throat, stilling the blood around your brain. You’re unable to move. To fight. Distantly, you take note of how his hand is so large it can wrap around your neck on its own. You wonder if you will wake up from this dream.

“Here to help,” you try to say, but your lips are useless and you can’t force your hands from the bedspread. Even if you could, you know you wouldn’t have a chance of getting his hands to stop constricting your throat.

You see the room becoming back just an instant before he loosens his grip. You gasp in greedy gulps of air before his grip starts to tighten again.

“Here to help—” you gasp, “I’m here to help.”

He keeps his hand wrapped around your throat, but doesn’t put any weight on it. He tilts his head as he looks down at you. Analyzing you. In the darkness of sleep, you feel freer and you’re unashamed to admit the rush of wetness that pools in your core at the intense look in his eyes.

His hand unwinds itself from your throat. The man tugs the bedspread down to your hips and unties your robe. You’re exposed to his hungry eyes, but you still can’t find the will to be embarrassed. You like this, you realize. Here, in the safety of dreams, you’re not in danger. His fingers brush you and then cling to you with a burning desire you’ve only ever heard of.

You wish you could move.

His hands roam over you with a bruising intensity. He clambers on top of the bed, resting in between your legs. You lay open and wanting, hoping he’ll give you want you crave. If you can’t have what you want while you’re awake, you may as well have it in your dreams.

He lingers around your breasts, fascinated by your body— more so than any other man you’d been with. Your nipples tighten under his attention and you let out a soft sigh. He finds your wetness by accident, you’re sure. He pauses when he feels your heat, like he’s not quite sure what to make of it. You groan as he slips his finger in you, slow and exploratory. A sharp moan escapes you before you can halt it in its tracks. Yes, you think, begging, please. He cocks his head before withdrawing like he just figured something out.

He looms over you in a way that makes you feel small. The size of him amazes you. You feel like he could manhandle you however he wants.

In fact, that is what he does.

He slips his hands around your hips— they’re so wide his fingers almost touch. He drags you closer to him until you’re pressed up against him. You can feel the heat coming off of his skin through the flimsy fabric of his pants. He ruts against you and you feel the slick slide of your clit against cotton. You wish you could move if only to sink your nails into him and bring him closer. You don’t think you’ve wanted someone this much— awake or asleep— in your whole life.

Almost like he heard your prayers, he allows you to collapse back on the bed before tearing off his pants with a relentless violence. You swallow when you catch sight of his cock. It’s everything you could’ve dreamed up and more. You’re struck by the absurd thought that it wouldn’t fit. More wetness seeps from between your thighs. You want him to try.

“You’re mine,” he growls in a man’s voice, positioning himself between your legs. He doesn’t wait for a response before thrusting in you with wild abandon. It’s more of a stretch than you had thought. You glance down to watch him as he rams into you and you’re amazed by the sight of him splitting you open. The man doesn’t last long before grunting. You can feel a warmth deep in you and you wait for him to pull out. That moment doesn’t come.

You gasp as he starts fucking into you again— small whimpers and whines as he goes slower. Teasing you. You’re close to begging before he starts giving you what you desperately want. He uses his own cum as lube to fuck you harder— faster.

It’s about the time that you can move your legs that you realize this isn’t paralysis and you’re not dreaming.

“Who— Who are you?” You gasp over the fire growing in you.

“Brahms; say it, say my name.” He leans down to press porcelain lips against your own in the imitation of a kiss. By the time you get his name right, your lips are bruised beyond recognition. The name sparks a memory in you— something about the haunting, the murder.

“You’re the boy, aren’t you?”

He growls. “Not a boy. Not anymore.” He punctuates his sentence with wild slaps of his hips against yours and you start to lose yourself in the feeling of Brahms fucking his rage away in you. You’re not sure whether or not to be concerned with how wet you get at the thought.

“Brahms— please!” You beg, “I need more.” You haven’t felt this desperate for a man in years. Decades. You ignore the rust-colored specks on his mask in favor of seeking your own pleasure.

“Show me,” he commands. You lift a sleep-weak arm off the bed and slip it between you to rub at your clit. You don’t get to enjoy the feeling before he tears your hand away and replaces it with his own. His fingers are so rough that your eyes roll back in your head. Your legs shake. You come harder than you ever did during your entire marriage and you feel the shock of it radiate through you. Brahms lets out a grunt as he felt your walls contracting around him.

“You’re mine,” he growls, “Mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp as he fucks you through your orgasm. “Yours.”

Your words only increase his fervor until he’s fucking you so hard the headboard is slamming against the wall. You’re not sure how you thought this was a dream. You hope it’s not a dream.

“Please, please.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. The wet slide of him inside you is enough to start your fire again— his rough fingers touching you exactly where you need to be. You let out a broken cry as you come for a second time. Brahms follows quickly after, holding your hips so tightly that you know there will be bruises in the morning. He holds you there, stroking your sides, as the both of you come down. His eyes watch you from behind the mask— cold and calculating. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking. Ignoring the mess, you turn your face into the pillow and go to sleep. Just before you drift off, you feel the warmth of his body as he holds you in your slumber.

*

You wake up the next morning with cum between your legs and bruises around your hips. There’s a ring of purple on your throat from when he choked you and you find yourself accidentally stroking it in the morning. You get ready with robotic gestures and go downstairs. There’s no one there except you.

But you know better.

You eat breakfast and start the coffee pot. You make two cups and leave one on the counter.

“See you tonight,” you whisper to the walls. The next time you come in the kitchen, the mug is gone.

No, you think, you won’t mind living here.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me, I'm on tumblr @wickedlyemma


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